Tempering a Friendship
by Hummingbird1759
Summary: How John's life changed post-Reichenbach, and what that means for his friendship with Sherlock. Rated T for discussion of suicide.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Too early for Christmas fic? Tell that to my brain, which has had "The Holly and The Ivy" stuck in it for weeks! :) As always, I don't own these characters, Moffat/Gatiss and Conan Doyle do._

_Warning: discussion of suicide in this story. _

* * *

**Temper:** v. improve the hardness and elasticity of (steel or other metal) by reheating and then cooling it.

Sherlock had only been back from the dead for six weeks when Mrs. Hudson insisted on having a Christmas party at Baker Street. She'd prattled on about having "the whole family together again" and insisted on inviting Molly and Greg and even Mycroft (who, be thankful for small mercies, had other plans). Just when Sherlock thought the idea couldn't get any more annoying, she suggested something to John.

"Will you invite Mary?"

John grinned. "I'd love to."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and turned back to his laptop. _(Girlfriends. Tedious.)_ He'd managed to rid them of Deleted-Name, The Boring Teacher on the last Christmas they'd spent together and perhaps this Christmas he'd accomplish the same with Mary_. (He's spending entirely too much time with her.)_

The day of the party came, and as he'd done two years before, he indulged Mrs. Hudson by playing Christmas carols on his violin. He'd still refused to wear the antlers – "Let's not make a spectacle, Mrs. Hudson" – but he'd plastered on a smile and told himself it would all be over soon. After playing the required carols, he make a beeline for his laptop.

Lestrade was the first to arrive, followed closely by Molly. Sherlock noticed the way Greg looked at her and forced himself not to roll his eyes. _(For God's sake, Lestrade, stop pining! Teenaged girls at One Direction concerts are more subtle!)_ John whispered something in Molly's ear that made her blush a faint pink and then glance in Lestrade's direction, and this time Sherlock actually did roll his eyes. _(Don't encourage them!)_

A female voice called out, "Good evening!"

Sherlock frowned but didn't take his eyes off of this laptop. _(Just ignore her.)_ He focused on The Work, party noise swirling about him unnoticed, until he felt a presence next to him.

"Sherlock?"

The detective looked up and saw John in his boring Christmas sweater with his equally boring girlfriend standing next to him. "Busy," the dark-haired man grunted.

"Sherlock, it's time to exchange gifts," the doctor gently coaxed.

"I didn't get you anything," he mumbled.

John smiled warmly. "You came back from the dead. That absolves you of any responsibility for giving gifts for the next hundred years. But," he said, lightly tugging at the detective's elbow, "You still have an obligation to _receive_ gifts, and Mary and I got you something."

"Oh," the detective said, taking the gift with an outstretched hand. "Given the size and weight, it's likely to be a scarf, and because John wore mine while I was gone and somehow manage to spill tea on it three times – did you really think I wouldn't notice, John? – it's no doubt a replacement. Since John hates to shop, it was bought at the last minute by Mary, and going by her current wardrobe, she probably went to one of those horrid stores on Oxford Street that sell overpriced Chinese knockoffs of designer fashion."

Mary gaped and struggled to come up with a retort, but no words came out. Luckily, someone else spoke for her.

John gritted his teeth, jabbed an accusatory finger at Sherlock Holmes and snarled, "Don't _ever_ speak to my fiancée that way again."

Sherlock recoiled as if he'd been slapped. The rest of the party guests gaped along with Mary. John's jaw dropped and his hand went to his face as he realized what he'd just said. After an excruciating twelve seconds of silence, the doctor stammered, "I'm sorry. I didn't mean for everyone to find out like this. But, er, yes, we're engaged. The wedding is next summer, and you're all invited."

Molly squealed with excitement. Greg shook both the happy couple's hands and congratulated them. Mrs. Hudson hugged Mary and told her, "Welcome to the family!"

Sherlock murmured his congratulations and John curtly accepted them. The detective retreated to his room as soon as possible, and the doctor and his fiancée left without telling him goodbye.


	2. Chapter 2

The following morning, Mary Morstan padded into her kitchen in a robe and slippers and found a disheveled John slumped at the table, coffee mug in hand. As she fetched her own coffee, she murmured, "Did you get any sleep, love?"

"No," the doctor said with a yawn. "I kept thinking about last night."

"What about it?"

"It's Sherlock," he sighed as the blonde woman sat down next to him. The doctor fiddled with his mug as he contemplated his next words.

"Don't tell me you feel bad for calling him out on his behaviour," Mary said, rolling her eyes. "I know you've a soft spot for him, but really!"

The doctor lifted his head in surprise and took her hand, tenderly caressing it with his thumb. "No! Don't be ridiculous! Nobody's allowed to talk to you that way, not even him. If Mrs. Hudson hadn't been there, I'd have punched him."

"Then what is it?"

John sighed. "Before Sherlock… fell, he'd say all kinds of horrible things to my girlfriends and run them off. And I let him because he was – is – the best friend I've ever had." He paused for a moment, struggling for words. "Have I ever told you how Sherlock saved my life?"

Mary took a sip of coffee, still holding John's hand. "You mean from Moriarty's snipers?"

"No, I mean the _first_ time he saved my life. After I came back from Afghanistan."

She gave him a quizzical look. She thought she knew all of John's Sherlock stories, and she was expecting another harrowing tale of chasing criminals or escaping a terrorist's clutches by the skins of their teeth. What she heard was something completely different.

The doctor took a long sip of his coffee and slowly began speaking, avoiding Mary's eyes. "When I returned from Afghanistan, it was as if all the colour had been sucked out of my life. Nothing seemed important anymore. I couldn't operate because of my hand, my limp kept me out of the Army, and I wasn't qualified to do anything else. I hated going to therapy but I kept it up because it was the only thing that gave me a reason to leave my flat."

John paused and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his left hand. _ (Steady. She needs to know who she's marrying.)_ "What I'm about to tell you is something I've never told anyone else, including Sherlock, although I imagine he worked it out within minutes of meeting me."

Sucking in a deep breath, the ex-soldier said, "During my last skirmish – the one where I was shot – a friend of mine was killed and I took his sidearm because my gun had jammed. When I was discharged, I turned in my gun but kept his. No one noticed one pistol was missing; they assumed my friend had somehow lost his on the battlefield. I kept the gun loaded in the top drawer of my desk. If anybody saw it, I'd just tell them that I lived in a rough neighbourhood and was worried about intruders."

"And nobody saw it," she murmured.

John gave a brief nod. "No. If my therapist had known about it, she'd have found a way to get it away from me, but I never told her. Some days I'd just sit with the gun in my lap, wondering what it would feel like, if anyone would hear, how long it would take for them to find me… if anyone would miss me."

"Oh, love…" Mary breathed. He refused to meet her gaze, so she gently turned his face towards hers and ran her thumb over his cheek, turquoise fingernails in sharp contrast to his stubble.

"One afternoon, after my appointment with Ella, I decided to take a walk through the park. I didn't want to go home and try to blog again because nothing ever happened to me, and I wasn't ready for another staring contest with the gun." _(Because my landlord was on holiday and nobody would have found me for a week.)_

Recognition appeared in Mary's face. "Is that when you ran into Mike?"

"Yes," the doctor said, the shroud lifting from his features. "Within a day of meeting Sherlock, I had an entirely different reason for keeping the gun."

John took Mary's hand in both of his. "He's a good man. He's the worst good man I've ever met, but he's still a good man, and I owe him my life. But," he said, stroking Mary's hand with his thumb again, "He's not the only person who's saved my life."

"Thank you," she breathed, and leaned over to kiss him. When their lips parted, she gazed into his eyes for a moment, and then teased, "I'm sure if you kept having to cook for yourself, you'd have died of food poisoning by now."

The doctor huffed, "Oi! What's wrong with my cooking?"

Mary got up to refill their mugs, and glancing over her shoulder, she purred, "The Beef Bourguignon Incident."

John got up, a predatory grin on his face. He slid behind Mary, wrapped his arms around her and whispered into her neck, "I recall you enjoyed your dessert that night."

She turned to face him, draped her arms around his neck and cooed, "Yes… care to make that recipe again?"


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock had been on the couch in his dressing gown all day. He'd done his best to distract himself with experiments, but as the winter sun descended, it became harder and harder to keep thoughts of John out. John was engaged. John was not going to live at Baker Street again. _(Marriage. Boring. He'll probably have some children too. Repulsive creatures.)_ John was going to devote more and more time to Mary and their eventual children and would stop coming to cases. Sherlock would just be a footnote in his past, a bedtime story he told to his children. John would become dull, boring, and tedious.

It didn't matter, the detective told himself. He had lived without friends for years before John. He had taken down Moriarty's web without John. He didn't need John, didn't need help, could operate perfectly well on his own, thank you very much.

A knock at the door brought Sherlock back to the present. _(If Lestrade had a case, he would have texted. If it's Mycroft, he can let himself in. Mrs. Hudson is out, I didn't order takeaway, and I don't care to deal with clients just now. I shall ignore it.)_

As Sherlock attempted to return to his Mind Palace, he heard a voice that made their hair on the back of his next stand up.

"Sherlock? I came by to talk to you. Will you let me in?"

_(John.)_

Sherlock sat on the couch stewing. _(No. You only came by so that you could wring an apology out of me.)_

John knocked again. "Sherlock, I thought you might be hungry so I brought takeaway from Angelo's."

Sherlock's stomach growled and he cursed his transport for picking a most inopportune time to make its presence known. "Is _she_ with you?"

A slight huff came from the other side of the door and John replied, "No. I'm alone."

Grumpily, the detective called, "Fine. Don't you still have your key?"

"No, I gave it back to Mrs. Hudson. Now would you let me in? The chicken parmesan is getting cold!"

Sherlock stomped over to the door and let John in, bedraggled and carrying a large bag of Italian food. _(Slightly wet – the snow must have begun just before he arrived here. Smell: Chicken parmesan, lasagna, and tiramisu. Bought my favourites so that he knew I'd let him in.) _

The doctor stepped inside. After Sherlock shut the door, he demanded, "So where's Mary?"

"At her mum's. I'll join them tomorrow afternoon, but in the meantime, I'd like to see you. Old times, you know?"

The detective grunted his assent. He flipped on the telly and the two of them tucked into their food while watching ridiculous shows and playfully arguing over the Mythbusters' techniques.

During a commercial break, John turned to Sherlock and said, "About last night…"

"Yes, yes, 'proper gentlemen don't speak to ladies that way,'" the detective said, clearly parroting something his mother had told him numerous times.

John gave an exasperated sigh. "It's not that. Sherlock, er, do you remember when we first met?"

"Do _I_ remember? I would think _you'd_ be the one who's forgotten," the detective snorted.

Ignoring the jibe, the shorter man continued. "You deduced within the first two minutes that I was an army doctor who had been invalided home from Afghanistan and I had an alcoholic sibling who'd just left her spouse. It probably didn't take you much longer to realize that I had a gun."

"About two more minutes," the detective said absently. "You were one step away from turning it on yourself when you met me, and the only reason you didn't is that you didn't think anyone would find you for over a week."

John swallowed hard. "Yes. You kept me from taking that step, as I'm sure you know. But… do you know what happened after you jumped?"

Sherlock fidgeted. "Mycroft told me a few things."

"I went to your grave every week. I talked to your headstone. I-"

The detective scoffed, "You talked to my headstone? John, that is the most ridiculous-"

"It was a poor substitute for you," John growled. "And I did something I hadn't done since I first came home from Afghanistan. I sat with my gun in my lap and thought," the doctor sighed deeply, "about using it."

"John, if this is another attempt to make me feel guilty, it's not going to work. Moriarty would have destroyed you and I did what I had to do!" Sherlock harrumphed, folding his arms and flopping his feet onto the coffee table dramatically.

"No, you twit! Let me finish." John took a deep breath, looked Sherlock in the eyes and continued, "I know now that you did what you had to do. And I will always be grateful. But this isn't about you. Six months after you jumped, I went on a date with Mary. I really wasn't expecting anything, but I was bloody sick and tired of hanging around feeling useless after work. And she," the doctor paused, carefully selecting his words, "She brought the light back into my life."

Sherlock gave an epic eye roll. "Oh God, John, spare me the poetry you've written her!"

The doctor pinched the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Sherlock, the point is that two weeks after I started seeing her, I took the bullets out of my gun and threw them in the Thames. If I hadn't met her, you and I would not be having this conversation." He removed his hand from his face and looked Sherlock in the eyes. "She saved my life, and I won't have you insulting her."

"Fine," came the grudging reply. "I would have been most annoyed if I'd returned to find you deceased."

John softened as he said, "But you saved my life before she did. She knows that I won't have her insulting _you_, either."

The detective smirked at this. "Glad to see I still come first in something."

John licked his lips before he continued. "Sherlock, I can't promise you that I will always put you before Mary, and I can't promise you that things will be the same as they were before, but I _can_ promise you that you are the best friend I've ever had, and nothing will change that."

"All right," Sherlock huffed. _ (John, you are not a very good liar, but at the minute I prefer your ill-told lies to the truth.)_

The flat was quiet for a moment and then John spoke. "So, Sherlock... er… would you be my best man?"

The detective snorted. "You can't get anyone else?"

John looked him in the eye and replied, "I don't _want_ anyone else."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow. "And how does Mary feel about this?"

"She thinks you're a pompous arse. But she's chosen her sister to be maid of honour, and I think her sister's a harpy, so we're even," John shrugged.

The dark-haired man steepled his fingers under his chin. "Am I required to give a toast?"

The doctor smiled. "Yes. And you may embarrass me all you like. It's rather your job as best man."

"All right. But I may need a substitute to give my toast if I have a case."

John chuckled. "Fair enough."

"One more thing, John," the brunet rumbled. "You need to buy some more."

The blond man blinked. "More what?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Bullets, John! For your gun!"

"Bought them the day after you came back," he replied with a grin.

The two men clinked glasses and resumed their marathon of crap telly. Tomorrow, John would be with Mary's family, Sherlock would be chasing a bank robber, and both of them would get caught in the morass of day-to-day life. But for now, the telly was crap, the food was good, they were at Baker Street, and Christmas was coming. Tonight, it was all fine.

* * *

_A/N: I may or may not continue this. Watch this space._


End file.
